Until Next Time
by Angel of Harlem
Summary: A little ficlet in which Gandalf and Faramir say goodbye before Faramir rides out onto the Pelennor. Gandalf POV. No slash or profanity. R & R!


UNTIL NEXT TIME  
  
Disclaimer: I own nothing save my everlasting love for Faramir, and a far- too-small amount of time in which to express it.  
  
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I walked the halls of Minas Tirith, turning down passages randomly, unthinkingly. There was nowhere I had to go, in particular. I could not speak with Denethor, for he was holding council and I knew better than to interfere, much as I would have liked to. Probably strategizing against me, the miserable old man, I reflected. But he cannot stop Frodo and Sam, much as he would like to. No, my pieces are moving, and anything he does is trivial in the grand scheme. It was a comforting, if bitter, thought.  
  
Hopefully Imrahil would tell me the finer details of the plan, since my other correspondents were probably as ignorant as I. The Steward knew Faramir would tell me anything I asked of him, and Pippin's loyalties, of course, were of no doubt to anyone. I did feel guilty, sometimes, for allying with Faramir, for I knew he suffered for it. But I needed to know.  
  
And, speaking of Faramir, as I rounded another corner I saw him, leaning with his forehead against the wall outside of the Lord's hall in the Tower, his arm raised above him and also resting on the wall. Briefly I wondered if it had been merely by chance that I had come this path, out of all the many other turns I could have taken. I thought not.  
  
He did not hear me approach, or if he did he made no movement. I reached out and laid a hand gently on his shoulder. He might have jumped in surprise; he might not have. Everything was concealed when it came to Faramir and his emotions, and it worried me. It is never good to keep feelings hidden, for it almost always leads to downfall. Denethor's son looked at me without raising his head, only turning it.  
  
There were shadows under his eyes, and in them too. His face was thin; his lips dry. He had not, it was obvious, been sleeping well. Surely Denethor has noticed, I told myself. Surely he will let him rest.  
  
But I was never one to be able to lie to myself, and I knew that there was no rest but the final one for the man before me, at least while the war lasted. If only, I thought in vain. If only I could have saved Boromir, could have brought him back here, could have saved the younger son from this. But it was too late.  
  
"Mithrandir," he said quietly, and his voice was thick as though from weeping. "My father will not be pleased to see you." He looked back down at the floor. For a moment his shoulders tightened, almost as if he were in pain, and I saw that his hand was clenched into a fist. Then, as soon as it had come, the spasm passed, and he looked wearier than ever.  
  
"I am not going to the council," I told him. "I was simply walking, without any aim other than to think on what should be done." And not share it with the Lord of the City, I added silently. Faramir smiled, a tired, sad smile. I had a feeling he knew what I had thought, but if he did he did not comment.  
  
Instead, he said, "I should be going in myself. But." he faltered and finally stood up straight, or as straight as he ever stood up. Was that slouch born of trying to hide, or from too many burdens? I could not remember if it had been there before Boromir's death.  
  
"But what?" I prompted, though somewhat more gently than I would have with someone else. Ever I feared it might be the last time I spoke with him, and that we should part in bitterness. I was concerned, also, that Faramir and his father would part on angry terms, forever. If the Steward loves his son, I thought sadly, he must show it soon, or it will be too late.  
  
"I can't," said Faramir simply, and there was despair in his eyes. "I can't do it. I can't go back out there." He looked away, apparently having found something interesting on the wall.  
  
"You don't have to," I told him gently. "You must tell him-"  
  
"There is nothing I could tell him that he could not see, if he looked!" Faramir told me angrily, and slammed his open hand into the wall. The noise echoed around the hallway, and he leaned against the white stone once more, taking a deep breath. Then he straightened, looking at me once again. "What would I tell him?" he asked, more calmly. "That I am tired? That I am afraid?" He shook his head. "So is everyone else. That is not an excuse."  
  
Surprised, I raised my brows. Was he . . . defending Denethor's opinion? It should not have been as surprising as it was, I saw. With a nature like his, sometimes I wondered how he managed to be a soldier. He was no coward, and he was a brilliant military strategist, but he seemed to hate it so much.  
  
"You must at least have a few days. Surely you can ask that much-" I began, but again he cut me off. It was a rare occasion these days - any days, really - when Faramir would interrupt me, especially in anger, but he was stretched to his breaking point now, and despair ate at him like a disease.  
  
"You know as well as I do," said Faramir coldly, "that there will not be room for negotiation in the Lord of the City's orders. Not when Gondor is ready to fall."  
  
No, I wanted to cry. Do not despair. Not now. Aloud I said, "He is your father, Faramir."  
  
Denethor's son smirked humorlessly at me and shook his head, whether in denial of this or in something like disappointment at my misunderstanding. But what he said correlated with neither of these emotions. "Perhaps. But he is the Lord of the City, and I am a soldier. I will do what he commands." He reached inside his surcoat, and somewhat hesitantly drew out a piece of parchment. "But. but I do have something for you." He handed me it, and, with one last look of helplessness, said, "Goodbye, then. Until next time," and disappeared into the Tower.  
  
Next time, I thought. Something in the tone with which he had said this made me realize suddenly that he did not expect us to meet again.  
  
I wanted to open the paper there and then, but I had a feeling that whatever was in it would make me want to rush in after him, and it would be better if I were far enough away to thoroughly prevent that from happening. So I wandered back to my chambers (or tried to wander, to appear calm and unworried, but I knew I was hurrying), then broke the seal and opened the letter.  
  
Mithrandir-  
  
I had to give this to you in writing, for if I had said it aloud you would have tied me to a pillar and forbidden me to leave the City. Perhaps you would have been right to do so, though I doubt it would have helped any. It matters not, though, now. Ah, I go on and on, but it is a very simple thing I want to say. Such is my curse; the written word is a treasure to me. You see? I cannot get to the point. But let me do so now.  
  
Thank you. In truth, it is you I should call Father, not the Lord of the City. 'Wizard's pupil,' he calls me in scorn, but I believe it is the highest compliment I have ever received. Ah, even the pen cannot help me say this. It is best left at the first two words.  
  
I say this now, for I doubt that we will not meet again. Not in this world. There is something about knowing that it is finally the end that gives one the courage to say things he never thought he could, isn't there? Perhaps it is not your end. But it is mine, and I go to it. So goodbye, my friend. And if ever you see Frodo and Sam again - and I truly hope, beyond reason, that you do - give them my best. So thank you, and goodbye.  
  
-Faramir  
  
I read the letter once, and then I read it again. Then I read the third paragraph once more. Then I leaped up, almost running over the returning Peregrin as I rushed out the door.  
  
I had to reach him before he left. Leaving this way, angry with his father, despair in his heart . . . he would have no caution, no will to keep himself alive. Somehow, through some way that I did not quite understand myself, I knew that for him to die would be a terrible blow, to the city, to me, even to Pippin. And the Steward . . .  
  
Denethor's fatherly affection towards Faramir had been almost completely nonexistent, at least since Finduilas's death. Before that . . . well, before that I had never really noticed. I suppose I had seen that the elder son had always been first, but Faramir had always had his nose in a book, and he was not going to be Steward. Heirs were always more treasured. And why not? Never had I guessed it would turn out like this. Even the very wise cannot see all ends. Strange how true some things can be.  
  
As I felt the smoky breeze through the gate on my face, I heard horses and men's voices. They are leaving, I thought. For a moment I hesitated, wondered if I should speak to him here, surrounded by those under his command. Then, with a mental snort of irritation at myself, I hurried - a stately hurry, but a hurry nonetheless - outside.  
  
Judging by the faces of the readying men, no one was looking forward to riding out onto the Pelennor, men and horses both. As I made my way through, I heard one man say to another, "It's all well and good if the Lord wants to kill his son, but do we really have to go with him?" I almost flinched, and I almost lost my temper at him. By great strength of will I did neither. There is spite and there is despair, and sometimes it is difficult to tell in which a man speaks.  
  
Finally I found Faramir, already seated on his horse, looking over a map with what I assumed was the Enemy's formations on it. He looked up when I said his name, then looked down when he saw me.  
  
"Come to tie me to a pillar, Mithrandir?" he asked absently. "You're a bit late. I believe we're due to set out in a matter of moments."  
  
"I'm not going to tie you to anything," I told him.  
  
"I was hoping we would leave before you got down here," he admitted. I was not surprised.  
  
"Faramir, please, listen to me. Do not throw your life away rashly or in bitterness," I said, and he looked at me again.  
  
With only the slightest hint of sarcasm, Faramir asked "And why would I do a thing like that?"  
  
"You know perfectly well," I retorted, for the first time in a long while losing patience with him. It was a foolish, last-resort mission, and he hadn't needed to take it. Men of Gondor, I thought. Their pride is always the death of him.  
  
For a moment my thoughts turned to Aragorn, on the Paths of the Dead, but I couldn't think about that now. Right now the goal was to make sure Faramir came back from this expedition alive. He had to leave, that much was set, but he did not have to die. It was not over yet. "You will be needed here before the end, for other things than war." Though I could not say what they were.  
  
Very quietly, Faramir said, "And who is waiting for me here, Mithrandir? The men? The city?" His eyes hardened and his voice became tight. "My father?"  
  
"Your father loves you, Faramir," I said, and in that moment knew it to be true, "and will remember it ere the end." But though I believed it, he obviously did not. I hadn't thought that he would, but his reaction startled me.  
  
At my words, Faramir laughed, not the quiet, humorless chuckle that he usually gave, but a full-throated and horribly mirthless laugh. My brows knitted in concern, but the laugh faded, and Faramir shook his head and sighed, still with a smile that was almost a sneer on his face.  
  
"Then he had best remember it soon," the Captain said, and suddenly there was a call from the walls. A sentry waved at Faramir to let him know that Denethor had given them the signal to ride. Faramir shouted to his men, and then, with one last apologetic look at me, led the company out through the gates, onto the shadows of the Pelennor.  
  
And I watched them go, a cloud of dust disappearing into a day that was more of a night, and I feared, I think, more for Faramir than I had for any one person before, save Frodo.  
  
Goodbye, then, I thought. We will meet again, my friend. Until next time.  
  
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Aah! The sappiness! The sappiness! *Smashes head against the wall multiple times* Okay, sorry about any parts of this that made you want to throw up. =) Angel # 1 took over; there was nothing we could do! Yeah, so if it was nauseating, I'm sorry.  
  
On the upside (rather unlikely, but I figured I'd put it down here just in case), if you really, truly want more you can leave some nice reviews telling me so and I'll write a bit more. Writing from Gandalf' POV is more fun than I thought. =) Or maybe it's writing about Faramir from someone else's point of view. Whatever. =D 


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